


Blood Wolf

by EdgeLaur



Series: Wolfssegner [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Abuse, Blood and Gore, Dog Fighting, Gen, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Transformation, Violence, Violent Thoughts, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLaur/pseuds/EdgeLaur
Summary: An assassin of growing caliber in 1820s Dunwall, Daud was never one to balk at a challenging contract. But when he doesn't heed the warnings of a coworker and instead follows an underground lead he stumbles on a dangerous foe, a new start and a cursed path, one he has no choice but to follow.Prequel story for the Dishonored Werewolf!AU story,Wolfbann.





	Blood Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> HEY FRIENDS SURPRISE WE ARE BACK. Life really fucked me over during February, which meant my creativity stalled to a near halt until things were fixed and settled. Well, now things are back to normal and my wuffie itch needed some kind of belly scratch. So here we have Daud's story! Or the start of it, at least. 
> 
> PLEASE, mind the rating and the tags. This is rated E for the violence, not the usual sexual content. I will be tagging where I see appropriate but just be aware it only gets worse from here. 
> 
> Until then, see you soon, and enjoy!

**Dunwall, Gristol**

**Month of Clans, 1820**

 

Smoke curled up from a lit cigarette, hanging in the late afternoon gloom above Dunwall's Brewery District. The owner flicked the butt off into the pot beside him before bringing the filter casually back up to his lips, pulling a drag and letting it sit in his lungs a moment before forcing it back out into the city skyline. Back to a brick chimney, he read the page in his hand once more before chancing a glance over at his scowling companion.

“You aren't seriously thinking about taking _that_ hit, are you, Daud?”

The man called Daud smirked, rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other before removing it again, flicking ash into his makeshift tray. The flower within the pot was long dead, the withered stem not even noticing or caring as the burnt paper rained down on its browned leaves.

“Don't be so nervous, Rulfio. This has hardly been our hardest job, after all. In fact it doesn't look too bad… what're you so worried about?”

Rulfio scowled, arms resting on his knees from where he sat on the other side of the roof. The location they had picked was secluded and a common meeting spot for the two of them. Noone else had stumbled across this little corner of Dunwall in quite a while, judging how long the plant's pot was left abandoned.

“Look, I just have a bad feeling, alright? There's all sorts of red flags around this contract. You looked into the guy, didn't you? This gentleman, Edwin Brimsley? I know you're aren't so stupid as to not do your research.”

Daud scowled, his ice eyes narrowing as he studied his friend. Or, well, could he call Rulfio a 'friend’? Their business didn't allow for such emotional attachments. Assassinating was a dirty job, and a competitive one at that. He'd known Rulfio for years now, but he had no reason to think he really had Daud’s best interest at heart.

“Brimsley is a bit of a strange character if you look into him, sure. That whole house is a little cuckoo; his brother worships the Outsider, did you know that?” Daud flashed a handsome grin before shaking his head and taking another puff of his cigarette. “Noble shitheads, the lot of them.”

“Then you probably saw that about six months ago this noble posted a very similar bounty to this one?” Rulfio insisted, his eyebrows raising in concern as a hand scratched at a peppered beard. “Almost word for word. The guy they hired that time was never found. Dockett, I think he was. A really accomplished assassin, just dropped out of the city overnight.”

“So what?” Daud leered back. “Assassins come and go all the time. We both know this. It's not really a _booming business.”_

“That's not the point, Daud. The point is that eight months before _that_ contract, a near identical one was printed. From inside the same house just from a different family member, this time an aunt. That assassin wasn't heard from again either.”

Daud lowered his contract and scowled at Rulfio, his cigarette balanced between his lips.

“So what, you think this shit's a conspiracy?”

“I'm saying you're swimming happily into shark infested waters, Daud.”

“And _I'm_ saying you’re too much of a paranoid shit, Rulfio,” Daud growled. He tossed his spent cig into the pot and then slapped his hand on the contract. “Everything in the fine print is outlined as per discussed and the pay is decent. It isn't even _that hard;_ we go into the Hounds Pits Basements, we find this hound trainer --” Daud pulled the pages closer and squinted at the print. “-- Howard Fink, and expose his cheating behavior and end his career.” Daud's eyebrow cocked as he smoothed his slicked back hair. “All conditions are agreed upon by both parties. It's an in-and-out job. We'll be fine.”

But Rulfio shook his head, throwing thick, calloused palms up.

“No 'we’ this time, Daud. You're on your own for this one.”

Daud _gaped._ His jaw worked and his eyes threw daggers as he sat up straight.

“Your pay is _in the contract,_ Rulf. This hit might be _easy_ but it's only easy with two in the job, not one!” Rulfio remained resolute, his Morley background keeping him stubborn as an ox. “Are you kidding me? Are you this superstitious about _this_ contract?!”

“There's a reason that family is avoided, kid. There's bad blood around them. They're either cursed, or determined to end the assassin business in Dunwall.”

“Don't _kid_ me, Rulf,” Daud snarled, his lip curling. “I've been doing this just as long as you.”

“Just because you started killing when you were 17 doesn't justify your age compared to mine, Daud,” Rulfio sighed, scratching at his beard. He stood up, pulling his close black jacket over his broad shoulders. “Look, _Daud,_ I also know you, and I know how hot your Serkonan blood runs. I can't stop you, but I'm tapping out of this one. You can keep my cut, if you even _get_ the promised pay.”

“You really think _I_ won't make it back from this? Are you serious?” Rulfio just shrugged his shoulders, which only irritated Daud more. He stood up, matching his fellow assassin for height, if not girth. “Fine. Fine, how about this. Since you're _so convinced_ I'm going to die or end up at the bottom of the river after this hit, you come back here at the same time three days from now. If I'm here, you get the cut you were supposed to get. If not, well.” Daud shrugged, then folded the paper and shoved it into his shirt. “I guess you win your superstitious bet.”

Rulfio raised an eyebrow, huffed out a laugh, then extended a hand.

“Sure. We'll shake on it.”

Daud grinned and clasped tight to his partner's grip. The shake was strong, if short lived. Daud's eyes flashed dangerously as he pulled his own black cloak over his protective vest.

“I'm going to make you eat your words, Rulf!” He laughed, then saluted before allowing himself to throw himself over the roof's edge and out of sight.

\------

The next night saw Daud staking out at the edge of the Wrenhaven, holed up in a small, weathered tower just east of the Hound Pits Pub. The tower actually connected to the 300-year-old building but was in such disrepair it wasn't any surprise to him that nobody used it. He sat at the window, cigarette in hand and eye trained at the brewery surrounding the establishment. Lights could be seen down below, the flickering warm tones of fire mixing with the steady glow of whale oil blue. Figures cast shadows and voices mingled. Daud pulled another smoke-filled breath before letting it out and getting up. He gathered his gear and adjusted his hood, keeping it clasped while he checked knives, mines, sleep darts, traps, smoke canisters and finally, his long, stolen whaler sword. The blade was nicked at the edge near the hilt; he ran a gloved thumb over it for good luck before sheathing it to his side. He left a trap at the window then set out into the gloom, beelining for the pub. He took the abandoned path to the roof from the tower, then lithely jump the railing and stooped low, keeping himself close to the shadows as he crept closer to the voices down below.

Decades ago, a section of the brewery was converted into the fighting hound pit that the establishment became named after. The old name used to be based on the pub's inn and diner features, along with the bar. That name dropped out of usage once the dog fighting started. As breeding grew and hounds got better and better in the pits, this place became renowned for its champions among noble and commoner alike.

Of course, only nobles have a real stake in dog fighting, with the best bloodlines money can buy. That meant that hounds were as competitive as assassins and their bounties.

At least, Daud would assume. He didn't really have anything else to compare it to.

“Come on, come on, let's get these mutts ready! I need muzzles on and bets placed before we go, everyone!”

Daud peered over the railing, throwing knife in hand, his feet steady. Below, a man with a thick handlebar mustache brandished some papers; as Daud watched, nobles brought dogs over, registering their names while others threw in their bets. The mustache laughed, teeth glinting with gold fillings. Daud's nose curled and his fingers tightened on the blade hilt.

“Hurry up, hurry up, my brother has a special treat for you all today. That beast of his is ready for blood tonight, so you best be ready to lose a dog or two tryin'ta beat it.”

“Don't be ridiculous, this dog hasn't lost a single fight!” A well dressed, stout noble exclaimed. The hound at his side was a scarred brute of a dog, muscled more than most men. Daud's eyes boggled as he looked; what in the Void were they putting into those dogs?

The mustache just laughed. “We'll see about that. Good ol’ Crone may be the first victim of the night. Howard's beast has barely been scratched, but you try to win!”

Daud perked at that; the murmurs grew and the growling ceased and soon the group was led back into the building. Not missing a beat, Daud stealthily followed; he squeezed his way into the roof piping, keeping hidden as he tracked the group through brewery. They took a right at the back and then entered the sewers. Daud followed at a distance, carefully closing the trap door and slinking into the tunnels after them.

The group led him into a large underground arena, one built directly under the pub. Daud eyed the arena carefully; there was a skylight and multiple furnaces and pipes; every nook and cranny was filled with hound cages, some with a hound inside, some not. Below the piping and inlaid in the ground was a pit, but it was unlike any hound pit Daud had ever seen. This was more like a bear arena, the walls high and reinforced, with domed wiring preventing escape. Around the pit wooden stands were built into the concrete, all with perfect viewing of the spectacle below. As the nobles filed away, Daud gained altitude, eying something that looked like claw marks gouged deep into the stone of the pit. His heart pounded in his ears and some of Rulfio's earlier warnings replayed in his head. But there was little he could do now; he was here, and so was his target.

Movement below caught his attention and he flattened down as the nobles filed in. He noticed that they no longer had their dogs; only Crone remained with his master, the rumble of his throat audible even from Daud's precarious position. In the arena, Fink walked out, to both boos and applause. He was taller and slimmer than his brother and brandished a top hat as he took a bow to the crowd.

“Good to see you! Now, do we have some new challenger who is ready to face the _Beast_ tonight?” The stout noble drew himself up, Crone straining in his collar and against his muzzle. On his command the dog stilled, all contained energy and corded strength. Howard looked to the dog and grinned venomously. “Well then, put him in while I go grab my contender. Will Crone be the one to win, I wonder?”

The nobles cheered, placing their bets. The man opened a door and strode Crone to the center of the pit. Sensing it was soon to fight, the dog strained against his bonds, whining and eager. His owner removed the muzzle and leash, backed out, and secured the heavy door. The hound began to circle the pit, sniffing, even pissing on a corner. The crowd hollered, laughing at the dog, calling for his opponent. All the while, Daud silently watched, nose curled to the spectacle.

After a few moments, a large hidden door at the other end of the pit opened. Something deep within rumbled and the dog turned, already growling, hackles rising. With a heavy footfall, and labored breathed, Crone's opponent appeared and Daud's mouth dropped.

Nothing could have prepared Daud for the sight below him. Fink's “Beast” was truly a _beast,_ an unholy monster of fur and flesh. Blind eyes sat embedded in a scarred face that barely resembled a hound or a wolf, with torn ears and a bent snout. It was so much larger as well, its body far outweighing any hound or human. Its shaggy mane shook with every step; chains rattled on thick legs where sores festered painfully. In spots thing's fur was falling out in chunks, revealing welted, scabbed skin. Its lip curled. Its head tossed back.

And then the thing _screeched._

Daud's blood ran cold and even the pit hound took pause. The sound wasn't anything of this world; it shook the room, reverberated in his chest, the notes reading of sadness and pain and _anger, so much anger._ It sounded of Void, of monsters of the deep, of screaming whales more than howling dogs.

Daud gripped tight to the knife in his hand to stop his arm from shaking. He had never known such fear, not in his entire life.

“Go Crone! You know what to do!”

Daud's fear would have to wait, for the dog was suddenly moving, despite its own cautions about what was just put before it. The dog was seasoned; it circled the Beast, silent, lip curling back. The monster sniffed loudly, its own lips revealing huge fangs, following the dog blindly by scent alone. Another screech and the chained beast was lunging, tail lashing, drool flying, snapping for its victim.

But the hound had advantage of size; it dodged easily, rushing the monster's exposed face. Needle sharp fangs sunk into the monster's flesh, puncturing its scarred nose, pulling and jerking. The Beast _roared,_ head shaking, blood splattering.

Still Crone hung on, kicking at the monster's chained neck. The nobles cheered.

“That's my boy, Crone!! First blood! Drown its sense of smell!”

The hound snarled, fangs working, grinding down, as the monster thrashed. As the flesh threatened to pull away the Beast decided enough was enough; blood flying, he threw his head straight into the floor of the pit. The dog yelped, letting go, its body bouncing away as the beast raised its head again, hoping to crush the prey it thinks is still below it.

But Crone was too fast. The dog darted away, tail tucked, mouth covered in his enemies blood as his fangs flashed white. He jumped again, this time for the torn ears. He connected again, his blinded and disabled opponent unable to sense the attack. It shrieked out its unholy cry as flesh stripped away, the dog taking the remnant of the ear away with it. It spit it out; now the huge brute was bleeding from the nose and the ear, and the crowd was happy to see the dog winning.

But the night was young, and the Beast had size and stamina on its side. Still the dog lunged, chunked away and sprang back from the monster's attacks. It circled, parried, dodged and bit, again and again. Soon the Beast was bleeding everywhere, its grey fur darkened to match the rivers of red running over it. It was a war of attrition that the dog was slowly winning.

And as Daud looked, it became apparent why.

It was just like the bull fights of Cullero, back home in Serkonos. From the outside, it looked exceptional, a daring act of a matador dodging the attacks of an enraged bull many times his size. But looks are deceiving; the bulls were drugged, enraged, and slowly stabbed to death. Here, it was no different. The Beast staggered, handicapped. It was chained at the feet, its movement hindered. And the collar it wore spiked inward, causing pressure on its huge throat.

It was all a show. A parade.

So why were no past dogs winning?

Crone lunged again. The crowd cheered, egging the hound on. And the hound bit down, right for the jugular. Blood spurted from the wound and the beast choked: it staggered, falling over as the vein flowed hot. Crone pulled at the wound, opening it and his owner roared with enthusiasm. His dog had won; he killed the unkillable, and his prize pool would be tremendous. While excited the dog won, disappointed murmurs abounded that the Beast hadn't put up much of a show. As the life of the beast spilt itself on the ground and the noble went to collect his dog, Daud turned away. He'd seen enough.

Then, everything shifted.

He felt it in his bones first, then in his nose. The acrid smell grew and when he looked back it was as if the beast was smoking, its body steaming from its wounds and openings. Eyes blindly searched and new scars sealed and the beast _rumbled_ as it drew its giant body upright once again. The noble shouted. The dog whined and barked and snarled. Though previously dead, the Beast drew breath once again and _screamed._

It was like it all happened in slow motion. The dog lunged as the beast swept a huge paw out, nails glistening and looking for the kill. Thosr claws struck the man just as the dog struck the Beast’s lip and it was all over; the man's stomach was ripped asunder. He barely had a moment to process before collapsing, his guts flung across the arena. The dog clung on, the Beast screeched and the nobles scattered, screaming. The dog unlatched from the beast and took off for the door, leaving his dead owner behind. The monster then turned to the body, sniffing it once before sinking fangs in with a disgusting squelch.

Daud blanched. He ran, looking for the closest escape. He understood now why nobody _returned_ from this contract; they were beast food. _They were food for an unholy monster of the Void!_ He tried to even his breathing, tried not to panic even as his arms shook and his heart pounded and his senses told him to run, run, _run!_

He couldn't. Not yet. He had a contract and more importantly, a fucking _bet._

This nightmare clearly needed to end.

Daud left the roaring beast in the pit, left it to its macabre meal as he searched for the back entrances while dodging screaming and scattering nobles. Many were freeing their dogs, some were leaving everything behind, none of them wanted near that pit. Even when he was  mere feet away they paid no attention to Daud, being rightly more preoccupied with escape. He slipped to the back tunnels easily, readying his wristbow as he went.

The deeper he went into the pit's tunnels the more disgusting incrimination on Howard Fink he found. Daud liked to think he was doing some kind of good while assassinating targets; he liked to only take contracts that he felt deserved it. But this man… he was on another level. The Beast he kept was tortured, caged for days or weeks, fed next to nothing so that when dogs fight, it feeds. Countless hound bones scattered the pits and as he felt the rumble of the monster in the distance, he couldn't help but wonder how many humans were buried under those canine skeletons.

Voices ahead alerted him of Fink and his brother; it was an argument, the words reaching his ears sounding hushed, angered, and sharp.

“I don't care if this _doesn't usually happen!_ You should have been in the ring to prevent this!”

“What, so I could have died instead? And how was I supposed to know a cut to the jugular _wouldn't_ kill a _whale-wolf?”_

“I think the real olephant in the room is that you knew the dog couldn't kill it anyway! What is that smoking magic it uses?”

“I don't know, but we have to sedate it. We have to sedate _him_ before--”

Howard's brother crumpled before his very eyes. He started and turned; he had been rummaging through his things, back to the tunnel opening.  Now he pulled out a pistol, steadying it at the tunnel as he bent to check his brother.

“Eustace! Damnit, Eustace?”

“He's only asleep, if that's what you're wondering,” Daud supplied smoothly, tossing his knife in his hand. Fink shot blind; Daud dodged and threw the knife, smiling as he saw it slice Fink's hand right open. The man cried, the gun dropping as he staggered up and back away from the assassin.

“Wh-who are you? What do you want?”

“Unfortunately I am here for your life, Fink,” Daud said casually, pulling out his Whaler blade. “Your brother should make it out just fine, though, given the hour or so it takes the sedative to wear off.”

Fink stuttered, his wounded hand bleeding free, his eyes shining with tears.

“You don't understand. We're all dead now. We're all _dead.”_

Daud frowned, crouching low, weapon at the ready.

“Actually, I plan on leaving here very much alive. You, however…”

Daud lunged forward, blade shining, aimed straight for his target.

But his human speed was no match for the paw that swiped him right at his side.

It hit him like a freighter, tossing him into the wall of the sewer like a ragdoll. The air left his lungs and he felt a crack. He fought for breath even as sharp pains told him it was his _rib_ that was destroyed, perhaps more than one. Still, he managed to flatten himself to the wall, rolling to the side as an added measure. Hearing screams he looked over, hand on his side, his head swimming dangerously.

Fink was pinned to the tunnel wall, squirming under the blind stare of the monster before him. Wounds healed and meal finished, it had somehow escaped and the blood of Fink's wound meant had beelined here. Daud's eyes frantically flicked between Fink and the monster and weighed his options just as a booming voice crashed through the room around them.

 _“Monster,”_ the voice roared, so deep and powerful Daud nearly fainted. _“You made me a monster! Fink!”_

“Please, please, just kill me, please--”

Daud's head spun. This thing was _speaking to Fink? How?_ Daud fumbled at his belt, searching for his next weapon. He hissed and pulled a new blade out, eying the fresh cut that it had sliced right through his glove.

The monster's nose twitched and its head swiveled. It roared, lunging right for Daud. With less than a second to aim, Daud threw his knife right at Fink.

The blade sliced into Fink's throat just as ragged, nasty nails _smashed_ into Daud's jaw. He couldn't yell because he felt his jaw break and his throat filled with blood, _his blood, oh Void oh spirits--._ Immediately his hand flew to his neck, trying to assess damage, but it was all too hot and his face all too cold, all too quickly. He coughed, choked and faintly he heard the monster _wailing,_ heard it turning to the dead body of Fink, but Daud was dying too, it didn't matter, none of it mattered.

 _Outsider's cock and balls,_ Daud couldn't help but think. _I really wanted to win that damned bet._

The world greyed. Everything went cold as Daud hit the floor. Even the roars of the beast sounded muffled, far away. His neck burbled, the blood hot on his gloved fingers, in his ear, over his face.

As he stared at the ceiling and waited out the inevitable, another figure swam into his vision. It wasn't Fink, but a boy. A boy with black hair and black clothes and black eyes and Daud blinked at him, confused. The boy shook his head, leaning over his dying body.

“Oh Daud, you have _no idea_ what kind of bet you just won.”

The boy's voice was as cold as the dead and just as final. Long fingers reached down and grasped at his face and suddenly he was so frozen his body was burning from it, his face shattering and stretching and his limbs on fire. He was alive, he was dead, he was feeling too much and too little and experiencing everything and nothing all at once.

He opened his mouth and _screamed._

The next moments flashed by like a dream. He was reborn and remade, his body burning and churning and _new_ and so powerful, so strong in a way it had never been before. He roared and screamed and the Beast, so large before, was now no more than a whimpering dog. A voice cried in his head for mercy, to wait, but he hated it, _he hated_ this sad worm of a creature that ate humans and dogs and tried to get into his head with thoughts and emotions that weren't his own. He tore into the monster and it roared and cried and screamed, again and again and again.

Eventually his fever dream passed and he was left, stranded, covered in the blood of someone, _something,_ else. He breathed, heaved at the smells assaulting his senses, and collapsed, broken and dying, remembering nothing more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> SO I KIND OF KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING, DON'T YOU? :D I mean we know the inevitable, but how does it all happen? Where does it all go? Honestly I'm still figuring that out myself, so don't be surprised if relationship tags get rearranged later. More than Wolfbann, I kind of know what I'm doing here, but not really. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this wasn't TOO gory, but I _am_ expecting it to get worse in some areas; Daud has a rougher go of it than even Corvo does. And obviously this isn't Corvo/Daud, but I mean. It's only 'cause its still so far. away. C:
> 
> All my love, and until next time!


End file.
